


(can't stand to have you) this close

by ClementineStarling



Category: Taboo (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 22:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9350015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: Please, he says. And: Let me.





	

Please, he says. And: Let me. 

And she does. She always does. Because how could she ever refuse him? He looks so young when he's pleading with her, and he's asked so nicely. She knows all he intends is worship (after a fashion). Is he not on his knees before her? 

His hair is soft under her fingers as she is petting his head, lightly, gently, a gesture of affection, of forgiveness. A touch as innocent as a mother's blessing. But she is mother to him no more than any woman is ever mother to a lover and he never asks for remission of his sins; he only asks for this and she doesn't deny him. His stubble isn't soft, isn't at all innocent, on the contrary, it is rough and sharp when he rubs his cheek against her thigh and presses open-mouthed, feverish kisses into her naked skin. 

A brand of shame, each one of them. 

It's wrong, she thinks, even as that shame coils tight inside her, becomes arousal, becomes need. She wants him despite herself. It's wrong but she aches for him nonetheless and so she has to assume his wickedness runs in her veins too. They are after all both children of a mad father. Why else would it take so little to wake these desires inside her? Shouldn't they be locked away safely in a cage of propriety? 

The fingers of her left hand dig into the bunched up fabric of her skirts, clutching at it for reassurance, when she feels the caress of his breath, hot and damp against her sex. It's all she can do to keep on to sanity.

What a fool's errand, she thinks. There's not a shred of sanity in this. He is her _brother_ for God's sake, crouching between her legs to lap at her like a dog, and she lets him! She doesn't push him away or begs him to stop but spreads her thighs even wider, so he can burrow deeper, slip his tongue inside her to where she is already wet and tingling for him. She grinds herself against his face, hungry for all the friction she can get, the pressure of his nose against her clit, the burn of his stubble. 

His hands are on her thighs now, holding her open, holding her steady, and she can feel every callus on them. How unlike they are on the surface. How similar they are beneath. Mere animals, the both of them. The only difference between them is how much they try to conceal this truth. He's not stifling any of the sounds she forbids herself, groans and growls and grunts, they form a lump in her throat and he's uttering them for her while she remains quiet, almost dispassionate but for the treacherous tremors in her thighs.

She's already close when he lets go of her for a moment to catch his breath. She can sense him smile against her cunt. She knows that sort of smile, triumphant, self-satisfied, but she can't summon the energy to be annoyed, not when she must concentrate on breathing to keep herself calm and composed. 

She's listening to the blood rushing in her ears, the rustling of fabric as James' is fumbling with his trousers to retrieve his cock, the moan stifled by her own flesh when his fingers finally close around it. It doesn't take more than this realization to invoke the memory of how it feels in her hand, how it looks when James takes hold of himself. 

He's resting his head against her thigh, eyes closed while he tugs at himself, hard stroke after hard stroke. His lips are slightly parted, his features twisted in pleasure. Zilpha's right hand is still petting his hair as if to comfort them both, as if all of this was perfectly normal. 

He doesn't wait too long until he leans in again to resume his ministrations, he never does. There is always the chance she might change her mind if he lets her, that the intoxication of arousal might subside enough to transform pleasure back into guilt before its time. Regret will inevitably follow this encounter, it always does, but not before James has had his fill of her.

Despite all her attempts at self-control she can't suppress a small gasp of surprise when he pushes a finger inside her, then another. They rub and curl and stretch while he laps at her, licks her clit until the room starts spinning. It's about then that the last qualms finally tip into certainty: There is nothing but this, James' mouth on her, his fingers inside her, the mindless sensation of pleasure.

It's just like it's always been. They must have done this forever. At least it feels like they have. She can't remember when it all began, though it must have begun some time, it only stands to reason (all things have a beginning and an end); yet somehow reason seems to hold no sway over them. She thinks she will recall the first time once she's alone again, when her mind isn't clouded with desire. In the solitude of her room the memories will come to haunt her, shame and guilt and that crawling sensation under her skin. It's also only then that she can imagine a last time, can hope for this madness to stop. She isn't the same person when she isn't with him.

When she isn't with him, she cannot stand the thought to have him this close. 

Yet, at this very moment, she cannot stand the thought to lose him.

But then she's also never been more certain he won't let go. Not now, not ever. His fingers are an anchor inside her, his mouth is a constant pull, sucking, devouring. She is a part of him; he is part of her. 

The rhythm of James' thrusts has become frantic, his fingers seem to grow larger inside her or she's just getting tighter around them. The tension is becoming unbearable, she is aching with it, a spring wound too tight. It only takes a few more thrusts, a few more licks until orgasm overwhelms her.

I love you, he murmurs against her skin when he comes moments later, I love you I love you I love you. 

Even though it may be a promise, or an apology, it sounds more like a prayer. But then again, this was supposed to be worship, was it not? She brushes a wayward strand of hair from his forehead. It's not soft anymore but sweaty, sticky, sticky like– she withdraws her hand.

Her skirts fall like a curtain as she gets to her feet and she smooths them down with both hands, straightening the creases.  
“You should get yourself cleaned up,” she says without looking down at him and marches away as if nothing had happened.

.


End file.
